Songbird
by dudeurfugly
Summary: The freaks of Jupiter, Florida find there is a lot more to Edward Mordrake than the legends let on when a connection to his past ends up at their carnival. Celia arrives with good intentions, but is soon swept up in a world she thought she'd left behind. And it might cost her everything. Edward Mordrake/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the OC's. **

**A/N: So, this happened. I can't deny I found Edward incredibly charming and interesting as a character. **

**If you're looking for someone to picture while imagining the OC, I mentally cast her as Alexandra Breckenridge, who played the younger version of Moira in season one. I figured she would be great in this type of role. **

**These chapters will be relatively short, I think, which I hope you don't mind, as I'm working on a bunch of other (original) projects. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

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><p><strong>West Palm Beach, Florida – 1952 <strong>

Celia filled up her lungs with humid Florida air and exhaled. The palm trees and looming skyline was awash in the golden glow of a balmy November evening. She allowed herself a moment to stifle another round of nausea before she started to weave through the foot traffic toward the road. Beneath her sunglasses, Celia dodged the curious and often puzzled glances that were thrown her way. She was used to the attention, of course. She was a woman well aware of her attraction to the male gaze, but she never rewarded them for it.

Red-haired and long legged, Celia embodied the sort of classic beauty that made women Hollywood starlets.

She had been a star of an entirely different kind.

This time, the glimpses she ignored were directed at the peculiarity of seeing a woman in a long overcoat in the middle of a muggy fall evening. She hated it as much as they seemed to; if only they knew that. She was roasting, and that in itself was making it more difficult for her to calm her stomach. Beads of sweat had begun to accumulate around her temples and at the back of her neck. She could feel them rolling down the small of her back and pooling underneath her arms. Nevertheless, Celia kept her chin up and her eyes forward. She had endured much more than this. It was nothing.

Lingering at the edge of the sidewalk, she set down her suitcases to hail a cab. It took several minutes, as the pedestrian traffic from the various flights dispersed around her. She inhaled and exhaled through her nose and wondered if it was outwardly obvious that she was drenched in sweat. A bright yellow cab halted in front of her, its breaks squealing. The driver, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, hurried from his seat to grab Celia's suitcases before she could reach for them again.

"I've got it, ma'am," he said. "You can get in."

Celia freed herself from her overcoat once the door had closed. She draped it across the backseat next to her. Although the cab was just as stuffy, Celia was grateful to replace the coat with a lighter shawl that she carefully draped across her back. It was black with lace around the trim—practically an ancient relic that she had mended time and time again, but no one else would know the difference. She leaned back into the seat with gentle care and turned her face toward the open window. The whisper of a breeze felt good against her overheated skin. Her cheeks were flushed. She hated to think that before boarding the plane, she'd figured the warm weather would be a welcomed change. Now, Celia found herself missing the brisk autumn weather of New York City.

"Where to, ma'am?" The driver looked at her reflection in his rearview mirror. She hadn't even heard him get back into the car.

"Jupiter," Celia answered. She felt the heaviness creep back into her heart. "Right to the carnival in town."

She dismissed the sneer that crossed his face. "The freak show?"

Celia stared down at her hands and pretended to rearrange the teal blue skirt of her dress atop a layer of crinoline. The driver's tone had matched his expression, incredulous and disgusted. Even if she didn't look, she could feel his dark eyes leering at her.

"Yes, sir."

"What's a pretty thing like you want with a place like _that_?"

"Nevemind that." Celia maintained her polite manner. "It's a matter of personal business."

He said nothing else as they sped away to the tune of a growling, sputtering engine.

**Jupiter, Florida – 1952 **

The glittering skylines and ocean vistas melted away to the rural areas populated by small towns and residential neighborhoods. Celia watched it with her face as close to the window as possible, the wind stirring up her curls and drying the sweat on her skin. She was half-mindful of the inquisitive looks the cab driver continued to give through his rearview, which weren't as discreet as he would have believed they were. Celia did her best to avoid his eyes. It wasn't hard, given that her thoughts were so preoccupied that she had begun to stare unfocused at the passing landscapes.

She didn't like making these trips.

They were necessary for her own peace of mind, her conscience, but they left her feeling drained. She would have made it to Jupiter sooner—she should have, really, because it was almost the end of November and it was far too late for common courtesy's sake. More personal matters at home had delayed her trip. But, Celia figured it was better to show up late than to not visit them at all. She didn't expect them to understand. Celia didn't know what, exactly, she wanted to get out of these visits for herself and for the performing troupes. Her conscience, sure, but what good was it? It didn't help. She couldn't undo what had already been done.

There was nothing she could do to stop the repetitious cycle. She had tried. More times that she could properly count, she had tried, but Celia was powerless against something that even she couldn't explain. They were trapped—the both of them. And anyone who did not protect themselves, who treated it without care and superstition, were dragged down in its wake.

Celia wasn't sure what else she could do.

The next time the cab's breaks ground to a halt, they were parked near the front gates of the carnival. The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving the sky blazing in orange and pink. Celia exhaled once more, staring at the clown face with its wide and gaudy mouth through the window.

Draping the overcoat across her shoulders, Celia ducked out of the cab with her purse in hand. The driver had already exited and was in the middle of retrieving her luggage from the trunk. Celia kept her back turned toward the garish clown head and pressed some neatly folded bills into the man's palm. It was more than he deserved, but it sent him scurrying away quick. The cab's wheels spit out bits of gravel and left a trail of dust in the air. Celia didn't turn around until it had dissipated. It was only then that she relieved herself of her coat, taking a knee to stuff it unceremoniously into the suitcase that wasn't as cramped. She would check into a hotel later, once her business was attended to.

Stepping through the front entrance felt familiar. Celia couldn't be sure whether or not it was a good feeling. She always seemed conflicted whenever she turned up at these places. She had called one of them home at a brief time in her long life. But it wasn't always pleasant. And it didn't come with a happy ending.

These shows were a dime a dozen—Celia had seen so many that they tended to blur into each other until they were unrecognizable. Some of the people, however, stayed in her mind even after she had left, each one unique and wondrous in their own right. The people were marvelous. Celia could never be fearful of them or repulsed. The places themselves, and the people who owned them, were what Celia kept a wary eye on. Beneath the sparkling colorful facades, there was always something nastier to be found.

Always.

And Celia knew this better than anyone. Appearances could deceive. They could draw your attention away from any dark secret that lurked, lying in wait.

The brash decorations, the striped tents reaching skyward, the lazy cycle of the Ferris wheel in the distance—all of it was run-of-the-mill, everything Celia had seen before. Surrounded by gold and red and twinkling lights, she found the place deserted. Crickets hummed in the grass while she crossed the empty pathways that wove in between rides and tents.

Like the daylight, the era of freak shows was fading. Celia had begun to watch their desperate struggle as they clung to an old world that no longer had a place.

The main tent was the centerpiece of the carnival, its highest peak rising above all others. Celia removed her sunglasses and stowed them away in her purse before she started for it. The nausea that had welled up in the pit of her stomach had been replaced by a knot of anxiety. She clutched the handles of her suitcases until her knuckles turned white. Her heels made soft patters against the hard-packed dirt. Walking in the midst of an abandoned carnival only proved to magnify the loneliness Celia tried every day to push the darker corners of her mind and heart.

A high-pitched peal of laughter caught the silent air. As Celia neared the main tent, she saw the glowing flicker of warm light from the inside. It spilled out onto the grass from an opened flap, the sounds of chatter drawing her closer. Celia thought it might be polite if she left her luggage at the door, but her feet intended to move on their own accord, fueled by her nervous anticipation. She breezed through the entrance of the tent and all sounds of laughter and conversation stopped. A tense silence followed, but Celia kept her calm exterior.

"We don't open for another two hours," a handsome young man—several years younger than Celia herself, if she had to guess—in a cap remarked, stepping forward from the group.

Faces met hers with a mix of confusion and awe. Celia tried to read them all, tried to distinguish them from the countless others she had met over the years. The young man before her had a deformity in his hands. He was trailed by a man covered tattoos whose abnormality was also in the hands and arms. Beyond them, an older woman with a beard occupied a table with two other women—one who was extraordinarily tall and the other was the tiniest Celia had ever seen.

"You look like you're ready to move in," the bearded lady said, a cynical laugh in her voice, her accent heavy and something Celia couldn't quite place.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Celia said at last. "I'm not here for the show."

Their dejected expressions made her backpedal. "Well, I could stay. But my business is with you, the performers. I would like to speak with all of you if I could."

"We don't want any trouble," the young man warned.

Celia settled her suitcases at her sides. "No trouble," she said. "You have my word."

She discarded her shawl, letting it drop to the dirt floor along with her purse. Celia took a breath and showed off the oddity that made her one of them. It felt like stretching. With a faint flutter, an impressive wingspan was laid out for them to see. Quiet gasps rippled through the small congregation of performers and brought the bearded lady to her feet. Celia smiled at them.

To anyone else, she might have looked like an angel. Tucked into her body against her back, the pair of wings went from her shoulders down to her waist. Opened fully, they created an extensive silhouette, each feather perfect in its place. They could have been angel's wings, if not for the color. Instead of downy white, they were iridescent—shades of peacock blue and green, ever changing to the naked eye depending on what kind of light Celia happened to be standing in.

The bearded lady pushed her way toward the front of the group, her mouth agape. She stood next to the young man, her eyes never leaving Celia's wings.

"It's all right," Celia assured. "You can look at them all you'd like." The only time she allowed herself to be admired was in the presence of people who could understand.

She flexed her wings, drawing them to her and then out again.

"Who are you?" the young man asked.

The group had congregated around her now, exchanging whispers and enthralled giggles.

She extended a hand toward him. "Celia Mordrake."

The chorus of gasps and hushed exclamations rose up louder than the response her wings had elicited. The young man shook her hand tentatively.

"_Mordrake_? As in, _the_ Mordrake…?" the bearded lady trailed off, flustered, stammering, one hand on her chest.

"You mean Edward." Celia finished.

The young man was giving her a guarded, side-long look. She noticed the group had backed off a bit, keeping her at arm's length.

"So, what? Are you his relative or somethin'?" he asked. "Some descendant or whatever…gettin' a kick outta showin' up and scaring carnies? 'Cause we get it, all right? He's been here already."

"No, no," Celia replied. "I'm his wife."

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><p><strong>AN: Celia's oddity was based on a fake fan-made promo for AHS: Freak Show that appeared a few months ago. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. **

**A/N: Thank you all SO MUCH for the reviews, favorites, and follows! I didn't expect such a response! Just a quick note: the second half of this chapter will start off an extended flashback, but we'll eventually get back to the carnival in Florida. And, please forgive any historical inaccuracies. I'm not an expert in the Victorian era (far from it), but I've done some basic research for this fic. In any case, I hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>It took several long moments for the statement to register. By the time it did, Celia was met with wide-eyed stares and open mouths, as if her association was far more freakish than angelic wings. On every occasion where she had made such a trip, the reactions were a lot of the same. Shock, horror, confusion. It didn't make her angry nor defensive. The legends of her husband had a storied history of gruesome and frightening connotations. How could they ever expect such a fearsome figure to have the capacity for love?<p>

Celia knew better, of course. Her diamond wedding ring still adorned her left hand.

"His _wife_?" the bearded lady asked.

"What's _that_ like?" the tattooed man wanted to know, with an undertone of astonished revulsion.

"Stories never mentioned you," the young man in the cap stated. Celia wasn't a stranger to his distrust.

"No, they wouldn't." She broke from the small crowd and placed one of her suitcases on a folding chair to open it. "I've become something of a secret."

"Yeah, okay," the young man continued, crossing his arms in front of him, "but that doesn't explain the fact that you're here and Mordrake died a hundred years ago. I don't buy it."

"You're not the first." The suitcase clicked open. "It's a tricky business to explain. But if all of you believe in ghost stories, you might as well believe mine."

Packed away carefully beneath her clothes, Celia unearthed a photo book where she stored some precious items to take in her travels. She opened the crimson leather-bound book and rifled through the pages with a gentle hand, quickly searching out the one she wanted. Since the young man was still eyeing her with doubt, she gave him the yellowed piece of paper first.

"Be very careful," she said. He gave her a look before he unfolded it to reveal lines of frantic yet legible handwriting. "You'll see that it's a letter written by Edward addressed to me. It was written during his stay in the asylum, which accounts for the poor penmanship."

He passed the letter to the bearded lady. "It's nice, y'know, but I'm still having a hell of a time believing you. I mean, you'd have to be over a hundred years old and if that's the case, you sure don't look it."

"How do we know you're not running a scam?" the tall woman asked, now holding the tiny woman at her hip. "It's a good story…I'll give you that. Anyone could've gotten that letter. For all we know, your name really isn't Celia."

There was a murmur of agreement through the small group.

Celia consulted the photo book once more, moving backward to two photographs beside each other. They had survived the decades intact but not without imperfections. The paper was aged and faded around the edges despite Celia's care. The images themselves had the typical grain and sepia tones of the mid-1800s, but the people within them were unmistakable.

The first was a portrait of Celia and Edward in their finest clothes, looking rather stoic. The second was a candid photo from their days in the freak show circuit and far less formal than the portrait. It was from a promotional photo shoot, and it would've been discarded if Celia had not asked to keep it. Since they had been married at the time, Edward's hand was on her waist and she was in the middle of kissing his cheek when the photographer decided to capture them. Her wings were on full display, but the photograph had immortalized something that Celia treasured more—her husband's smile, genuine and rare.

She gave the book to the bearded lady. The others gathered around her all at once, and she held it up to compare the photographs to Celia.

"My god…"

"The photographs can't lie," the tall woman said. "That's her, Jimmy."

The young man, whose name Celia gathered was Jimmy, offered the letter back to her. His skepticism dissolved into a crooked grin, and he shook her hand again.

"Okay, you got me," he said. "But that still doesn't explain _how_."

Celia nodded, understanding. "Even Edward and I don't know," she replied. "I haven't aged in almost a hundred years. We have a theory that perhaps after Edward died, his demon had the ability to grant me an endless life just as it has the skill to decide to take one. I haven't figured out if it's a blessing or a curse. Most of the time it feels like both."

She replaced the photo book and snapped her suitcase shut. "I realize this is a lot to take in—"

"I think we'll believe anything nowadays," the tattooed man declared.

"In any case, I don't mean to disrupt your work," Celia said. "It's just…I've made it customary to make these visits. I don't know why. My conscience, perhaps." She looked around at all of them sincerely. "Is this your entire troupe?"

"No, not all of us," the bearded lady said. She sat down in a chair across from Celia. "Stay for the show, Mrs. Mordrake. You can make whatever announcements you need once the crowds have gone home."

"I shouldn't—"

"Stay," Jimmy insisted. "Don't feel like we're gonna run you out of here."

"Hell, Mordrake may've scared the shit clean outta us, but what he did? Best damn thing for business we've had in a very long time. Had a sold out show every night since the first of November," the bearded lady explained.

Celia, who had been absently twisting the ring on her finger, ducked her head. "That isn't a reaction I've heard before."

Jimmy held her gaze in earnest. "He saved my life—crazy as that sounds. Probably would've been dead meat if I'd tried to take on that psycho myself. I watched it happen. This whole town is a lot better for it."

"All right," Celia decided. She grinned at them. "You've sold me."

The small group resumed their excited chatter and sounds of approval, stepping forward one by one to introduce themselves to Celia. In return, Celia shook each hand and committed their names and faces to memory. When the group lingered, Ethel, the bearded lady, dispersed them with orders to finish preparations for the night's show before they lost their jobs. She also shouted to Jimmy—whom Celia had learned was Ethel's son—to reserve a seat in the front row for Celia. While the others scattered in different directions to take up their evening tasks, Ethel moved across the aisle and sat down on the other side of Celia's suitcase.

"I hope you don't find this rude, Mrs. Mordrake," Ethel said. "But there's so much I want to ask you."

"I can't blame you for your curiosity," Celia answered. "You gave your darkest secrets to the demon…asking me about mine would only be fair."

"You don't owe me anything."

Celia folded her hands in her lap and turned closer to face Ethel. "No one else has ever cared to ask me for my story."

Ethel placed her hand on top of Celia's. "Then, please," she said. "Tell me."

**London, England – 1850s **

The shadows thrown by the lamp on Celia's bedroom vanity table seemed to make her frown look deeper. She stared at her unhappy reflection while her mother finished clasping the emerald encrusted necklace that matched her ball gown.

"Celia, dear," her mother said, rounding the chair where she sat, "if you continue to wear that miserable expression, you will scare off any chances of finding a suitor."

"According to you and Father, it isn't my expression that needs worrying about," Celia protested. "There is much more to me that will frighten them away."

She got up from the chair and crossed the room—a magnificent bedroom furnished with ornate wood cream-colored tables and a wardrobe, all with yellow-gold and pastel pink accents. There was a large bed in front of her swathed in the finest linens and silk. The stack of pillows against the headboard matched the powder blue of the walls, also lined with mirrors and paintings in heavy frames.

Celia was never left wanting for anything. From birth, she had enjoyed the lavish, comfortable lifestyle of high society. But wealth wasn't the source of her misery, and it never had been. She found the aristocracy suffocating—almost literally—and would have avoided the whole ordeal if it weren't for her parents' impeccable social standing. By rights, she could find a suitor of high rank and marry well, give him many children, and continue the cycle of galas and afternoon tea and the like.

She was beautiful enough. Her abnormality, however, wasn't such a desirable trait in a future wife.

Celia's ball gown had been tailored, like all the others, to disguise what made her different. Extra layers of fabric and lace had been added to the back to keep her wings out of sight, to help her in her act of playing normal. As such, Celia was forced to tuck her wings into the dress itself, which was both stifling and painful when endured for long periods of time. Once she was able to breathe again and stretch them out, she always found a terrible amount of broken and frayed feathers. The family tailor had been sworn to secrecy since Celia's birth; she had been especially accommodating all these years in making her look presentable to society where she wouldn't ever belong.

But Celia's unpleasant demeanor wasn't due the fact that she _was_ different, it was the awful idea of having to _hide_ her difference.

"Were you not the one who tried to force me to accept a life of charity?" she asked her mother. Her heels clattered against the hardwood floor while she paced. "I have grown up hearing you and Father tell me that I would never find a man who would want me for his wife if he knew what I was. If that were true, you would have no use in parading me around at every ball or social event."

Celia's mother was patient. "Your father and I have told you a thousand times over that there is always a solution to your predicament."

"I have none."

"We have offered—on many occasions, mind you—to bring you to the finest doctors anywhere upon this earth who would relieve you of your ailment so you could live a life to your fullest potential."

"Ailment?" she asked, her eyebrows knit together. "This is _who I am_. I ask for nothing else. I wish to be accepted for everything that I have, whether or not it is what people expect."

"That is not the way of the world, Celia."

"It should be," she said, attempting to reign in her temper by clenching her fists. Her face felt warm. "If this world will not accept who I am, why should I embrace it?"

Her mother let out a long-suffering sigh. "We have had this same conversation for as long as I can remember and I grow tired of it."

Celia's knuckles were white. "Why, then, have you suddenly decided to _not_ abandon all hope in finding me a suitor?"

"Because, dear," her mother stilled Celia's pacing and patted her cheek, "You have yet to meet the right man." She was wearing the omniscient expression mothers often perfected.

A knock at the door stopped Celia's chances of asking exactly what her mother had meant.

"Come in," her mother beckoned.

The door crept open before a familiar face appeared behind it: Celia's best friend, Josephine, who was already showing off her dimpled cheeks in a beaming grin. Clad in a gorgeous purple gown, Josephine's skirts swayed across the floor as she made her way over.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No," her mother answered. "We're quite finished."

"Oh, Celia!" Josephine clapped her hands together in delight. "You look lovely."

Josephine shared a glance with her mother that left Celia studying them with a certain amount of intensity.

"What have the two of you been scheming behind my back?"

Josephine appeared as though she were about to collapse with the burden of unshared information. She was practically bouncing on tiptoe.

"We've found the most wonderful match for you, Celia. He_ is_ a bit of a recluse—an odd sort of fellow, but you know, _you_ have never been the most normal of young women, either."

She, unlike everyone else, knew of Celia's abnormality. It was a secret she had understood without disgust since they were children.

Josephine's brown eyes sparkled in the dim light while she spoke. "He never attends these sorts of social gatherings, but he is a good friend of mine and my husband's. We've spoken to him directly, and he has agreed to meet you. In fact, your mother has had several meetings with his parents. Everyone has agreed that this will be a perfect match."

Celia shook her head, gathering a shawl that had been draped across the blankets. It was typical of Josephine and her mother to conspire without her knowledge. When her mother had all but given up, Josephine had made the subject of matchmaking her priority. Since she was a married woman and older by two years, Celia knew Josephine would take it upon herself to serve as chaperone during any and all courtships that came about because of her careful planning.

She decided to humor her just this once. "I suppose you have not left me with much of a choice in the matter."

"He is an intelligent man, Celia," Josephine went on. "A poet and a most skilled pianist. I have had the rare opportunity to hear it myself."

"Suppose you should court him yourself?" Celia teased. "The way you speak of him."

Josephine laughed. "You will be speaking of him just the same—I have no doubt."

"If he is such a fine gentleman, why is he still unmarried?"

"You will find, my dearest Celia," Josephine said, grinning with a faint trace of mischief, "that you have much more in common with him than you might think."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Just the OC's.**

**A/N: I apologize for the huge delay in updating, you guys. I've been busy with other original writing projects and my muse for this fic fell by the wayside. This chapter got me stuck, despite knowing how the fic will play out. Thank you for your patience! And thank you for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. I'll try not to go so long without updating. Enjoy this extra-long chapter to make up for it!**

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><p>The brisk September wind snapped at Edward's cloak as he was ushered into a foyer teeming with people who had arrived in their finest attire. After passing off his cloak and cane to an attendant, he wove his way through the crowd, giving a faint smile or a gentle tip of his hat to those who chanced a polite nod in his direction. The Mordrake name was revered in social circles, a family of noble blood and unfailing wealth. His parents, who would be arriving in his wake, would do far better than he in striking up conversation and maintaining the prestige of their surname.<p>

While he was known to his parents' friends and business acquaintances as a handsome young man with an abundance of talent, he had collected another reputation of a different sort. One that his parents would rather keep trapped behind the doors of their stately home than give any thought to in public. His secret was their secret, their burden.

In the eyes of the society Edward had been born into, he was a man who preferred not to attend social events and had a rather odd habit of muttering to himself. High society was unusual that way—they could forgive a man's oddities if he had an attractive face and came from a prominent lineage. Edward considered it a saving grace. His parents had always been adamant about "keeping up appearances." The irony was not lost on him. But no amount of wealth or social standing could free him from torment.

It seemed pointless now to endeavor to find a wife. His father found joy in reminding him that he wasn't getting any younger, and he thought a wife would allow Edward to find his way out of the isolation he had put himself in. There had been many an argument about this topic in particular, especially in recent months, and it only fueled the endless fire for his demonic counterpart. The task of finding a woman who would not be fearful of him would be impossible. He had all but relinquished himself to a life as a lonely man, growing older and angrier with each passing year. He didn't have the slightest clue as to why they were so ardent about finding him a wife—how could he ever build a healthy union with anyone if he couldn't hide the demon? Surely, they didn't expect him to. He would never make it to the altar at that rate.

Edward felt a hand on his shoulder. "Just think, Edward, you might be married to a beautiful young woman this time next year."

He turned to acknowledge his mother, a woman whose hair had gone gray-white, but shared his pale blue eyes.

"And give you all the disfigured grandchildren your heart desires, Mother?" Edward asked.

She pursed her lips. She looked rather caught, which he would've expected. He almost felt pleased. "This is not the time nor the place."

"Then perhaps you and Father will do better to keep your arguments to a respectable volume," he countered. "_It_ feeds off your mourning for the Mordrake line ending with my shameful existence, my dear mother."

"Edward," she answered sharply. "I will not discuss this further. It should be left at home. You will do what is expected of you tonight—if not for yourself, then for your father."

Before Edward could respond in his defense, she disappeared into the foyer's bustling traffic, and he let the hand he reached after her recoil slowly.

_Her pain is delicious_, his counterpart growled. _Almost as delicious as yours. You've mourned for those unborn babies, too, haven't you, Edward dearest? _

"Quiet," he ordered.

_Oh, _it whined in mock-sympathy, _I weep for you. Truly, I do. You still think you can hide your secrets from me. The fear you must feel at the idea of fathering a monstrosity. No, you would not wish to pass along that burden. I wonder if that's why your father takes to the bottle. You think so? How could they have given birth to such a ghastly creature?_

"The only ghastly creature I am acquainted with is _you_, you insolent child," Edward whispered.

_Your insults are ever so delightful. Keep them coming. _

Edward clenched his jaw shut. The sweet music from a string ensemble beckoned him into the grand ballroom. He focused on the melody, the echoes of the voices and laughter that suddenly filled up the air around him. He prayed for the demon to keep its silence but knew his prayer would go unanswered.

The ballroom, like so many he had been forced to against his better wishes, was a place of magnificent beauty. Crystals in the large chandelier overhead dazzled in the light, a crown jewel of the frescoed ceiling and elegant carved designs around its perimeter. The floor had been nearly swallowed up by the patrons—the men in their finest coats and cravats, the women wearing full-skirted gowns in an array of bold colors, some with hats or bonnets. Although Edward very much looked the part to blend into this crowd with perfect ease, he didn't feel as though he was fooling anyone. There was a false wig attached to the back of his top hat to shield his half-face from view, but he had the paranoid delusion that everyone could see right through it.

_What would you do, Edward dearest?_ It taunted. _If you simply removed your hat, if you started spilling their blood across these polished floors… You would not be forgotten _then_ would you? Imagine how the chandelier would sparkle in a pool of your father's blood. Infamous. That's what the Mordrake family would be. _

"No, it would not," Edward disagreed in a whisper.

_You need a legacy. This would be a grand one. If fatherhood is not your fate, allow it to be murder. _

"Your delusions of grandeur are ceaseless."

_But they aren't impossible. Unlike your love life. How long has it been since you felt the caress of a woman? The loneliness must eat away at you… You cannot continue to do all the work yourself. Imagination can only take you so far. Perhaps you need a scandalous affair to loosen you up to the idea of bloodlust. _

Edward ignored the demon's persistence.

"Mr. Mordrake," a familiar voice shook him from his thoughts.

He turned on his heel toward her. "Mrs. Bancroft."

Josephine Bancroft, a sweet young woman with dimpled cheeks and dressed in a gorgeous purple gown, slipped her gloved hand into his. He brushed his lips across her knuckles and offered her the most genuine smile he could muster.

"Where is Mr. Bancroft?" he asked.

"I seem to have lost him with a group of gentlemen," Josephine admitted. "Are you well, Mr. Mordrake? I know you detest these gatherings."

"I will manage," Edward said. "Your concern is most appreciated."

"I believe I may have someone who will help." Josephine's face was alight with mischief. She was bouncing on her heels, a habit of hers since she was easy to excite—a quality her husband confided in Edward that he found endearing. "If you allow me, I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine."

He bowed his head. "Lead the way, my good lady."

They crossed the ballroom to a corner where others assembled in chairs with glasses clutched in their fists, their cheeks already pink from the booze and the stuffy body heat. Edward's gaze fell upon her before Josephine made the introduction, his cool eyes drawn to the fiery shade of her hair, the fullness in her cheeks, the beauty that she held in a way that was alluring and not conventional. Her hands were buried in her emerald green skirts, her eyes downcast. She carried herself like she wanted to disappear. She rose from her chair once she saw Josephine and put on an expression that wasn't creased with such discomfort.

Josephine took her friend's hand and encouraged her forward. "Mr. Mordrake, this is one of my oldest childhood friends, Celia Hamilton."

Edward tipped his hat at her. "Edward Mordrake, Miss Hamilton," he introduced. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

She gave him a polite curtsy. "As am I. Josephine has spoken very highly of you."

"Has she?" His tone was amused, though guarded. Josephine knew about him what others did not—what, exactly, had she told her friend?

Josephine patted Celia's arm and pivoted on her heel. "I must find my husband," she excused. "You'll be all right without me, won't you, Celia?"

Celia looked hesitant, but nodded. "I suppose I will."

The silence that fell on them twisted a knot of anxiety in Edward's stomach.

_You're pathetic at this, Edward dearest_, the demon teased.

The nervous laughter that escaped Celia seemed to loosen the knot somewhat. Her smile was absolutely radiant. "I hope this isn't too forward of me, but you look as unhappy to be here as I feel."

Now the nervous laughter was his, but he dodged her eyes. "I had hoped my discomfort would not be obvious."

"I don't fault you for it."

_Are you blushing? _

Celia clasped her hands in front of her. "Josephine tells me you are an accomplished pianist. Do you compose your own music?"

"I have been known to compose a few pieces on occasion when I am so inspired," Edward answered. "Do you play, Miss Hamilton?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I have tried, but I am rather abysmal, truthfully." She shook her head. "My talent lies more with dance. At least that is what Josephine and my mother seem to agree upon. Josephine pursued it because it was something else we could have in common, but I don't think she enjoys it as much as I have. She does not see it the way I do." When he didn't answer right away, her face fell. "I am sorry—I don't mean to monopolize the conversation. I doubt you have interest in my dancing."

In truth, he had been concentrating completely on her voice, on the saccharine melody of it, trying to figure out how it might translate to piano notes. He wanted to commit it to memory for his own composition, so that when she left and forgot his name, he could keep it. Immortalize it.

"No, my dear, you have my interest," Edward apologized. "I am afraid the blame is my own. Conversation is not a forte. Perhaps a dance would fare better."

He held out his arm to her and was surprised when she took it. He led her through the tightly gathered groups that framed the dance floor. The string ensemble had just started up a steady, graceful waltz, and couples young and old twirled in circles around each other, wary of each other's feet and layers of skirts. Edward joined their number, taking Celia's hand to lead her. They found a spot near the middle, and Edward tentatively settled his other hand at Celia's waist, while she rested a hand on his shoulder.

Thankfully, he was more skilled at leading a waltz than engaging in conversation with a young woman. Still, it had been a while since he had danced, and even longer since he had willingly offered a dance to a partner around his age. Celia's hand was warm in his, the smell of her perfume rose to fill his senses. He had to fight back the urge to reach out and take the lock of hair that had escaped in front of her face in between his fingers—entirely improper, considering their proximity was enough. It felt too dangerous, her hand so close to the entity that tortured his very soul.

_Careful, Edward dearest. That body heat isn't just rushing to your face. _

He bit back a reply. If he started talking to himself this close to Celia, she would never finish their dance.

_You are infatuated already_, it continued. _I guess it doesn't take much for a lonely, miserable soul such as yourself. Go on, then. I am sure you could find an empty room to ravish her in. She would never see _me _in the dark…_

_Shut up_, Edward thought.

_Your hands on her naked body… _

…_Or your hands wrapped around that delicate throat? _

_Never_, Edward protested. _You will not tempt me to murder._

_We shall see about that. _

Celia was watching him intently, as though the depth of her hazel-eyed stare could unlock every secret and see right through him. The idea was worrying as it was intimidating—and a woman who managed that, Edward figured, was worth his time tenfold.

"Is something the matter?"

"No," Celia said. Her eyes had narrowed. He felt like she, too, was attempting to commit him to her memory. "It's just…"

"What?"

"Forgive me, I cannot. It would be improper."

He offered a smile of reassurance. "You may speak plainly, Miss Hamilton. Any violations of decorum are meaningless to me."

"But you _are_ a gentleman."

"Only in name and wealth, my lady," Edward said.

Celia laughed, though she looked away so she thought he couldn't catch her flushed cheeks.

He followed societal etiquette, but a man with his disfigurement did not belong in those circles. He saw no point in keeping it so closely.

Celia seemed reluctant. They continued to sweep around the floor, maneuvering with grace out of the paths of other dancing couples. Edward caught sight of his mother beaming at his newest social interaction, though his father did not share in her obvious excitement.

"I cannot fathom why a man like you would choose to shut himself away from the world."

"Ah," Edward said. "My reputation precedes me."

"I meant no disrespect," Celia said quickly. She squeezed his hand, though he wasn't sure if had been on purpose or by accident. "The only reputation I have heard is the one Josephine gave me."

"It's quite all right. Rumor and hearsay seem to follow in my wake wherever I go. Even now, as we move across this floor. I see their eyes turn to me, though they think I do not. I would not wish to have you drawn into their rampant speculations."

"They can say whatever they like," Celia told him. "I don't care much for gossip. Which is why I cannot believe Josephine."

Edward dared to move closer, his lips inches from her ear. "Perhaps I chose such a life because I have found the world to be unaccepting of who I am."

_A very bold move. I did not think you had it in you. Maybe you are a man after all. _

"And who is that?" Celia whispered back.

The song ended on a subtle note, and a crescendo of applause interrupted Edward's chance for a reply. Celia kept him at arm's length, searching his face, keeping his eyes locked with hers, desperate for his answer. Instead of giving one, Edward held her hand and kissed the back of her palm, never averting his gaze. She followed the motion with her eyes, squeezing his hand once more before he released her from his hold.

"Until next time, Miss Hamilton."

_You liar. You will never see her again, you lovesick fool. Are you so delusional as to believe she would want you? She would cower at my presence. She would weep at the hideous children you would give her, plagued with their own demons… _

"Will there be a next time, Mr. Mordrake?"

Edward tilted his head, only to prevent Celia from seeing the scowl the demon's words had incited.

He grinned at her, or attempted to. He was sure it wasn't convincing, that he had allowed his sadness to break through a carefully crafted façade. Edward found his answer as soon as Celia's curiosity turned to something more solemn. She started toward him, but he tipped his hat in a polite manner, figuring it was best to take his leave before he acted regrettably. Before the demon could encourage his anger and frustrations further.

"A good evening to you, my lady."

"Mr. Mordrake—" she cut herself short, at a loss for words. "If it was something I might have said…"

"No, you were…" He cleared his throat, trying to even out the tremble in his voice. It had hurt, to be the one to shatter what had been pure hope in her eyes, to destroy the last shreds of his own foolish optimism. "You were very kind. Please, give Mrs. Bancroft my regards. I wish you well."

"I would like to see you again." The next song had begun, and the dancing couples circled around them, oblivious to their plight.

"I do not think that is in your best interest." Celia opened her mouth to protest, but Edward shook his head. "Believe me, Miss Hamilton, it is better if we part ways now, with nothing but a dance between us. I shall hold onto that. I thank you for it."

With a heavy heart, Edward turned his back on Celia, and the demon laughed in his ear at his misery.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.**

**A/N: I hope I haven't lost you guys. Thanks again for the reviews, favorites, and follows! **

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><p>Celia awoke to the sound of her parents' raised voices somewhere downstairs. She squinted against the pale light in her bedroom, allowing her eyes to adjust to the waking world while she tried to decipher what they were arguing over. From the hard, booming undulations of her father dominating the conversation and the sporadic interjections of her mother's gentle tone, it couldn't have been good. She had a feeling it was one of those discussions that had been brewing under the surface for the several days that had followed the gala. Celia figured her father could no longer stand his outrage and therefore allowed it to boil over. She had seen the sharp look he had given her during her dance with Edward Mordrake. He hadn't said a word about it during their tense, silent carriage ride home, and he hadn't shown nearly as much animosity toward the other young men Celia had danced with upon Edward's departure.<p>

Stretching, Celia slid out of bed in her nightgown, leaving the tangle of sheets behind. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but she padded quietly across it anyway, hoping the boards wouldn't creak and give away the fact that she was awake. Celia loved the mornings best—without the hostility below, of course—when the light was weakest, when all was quiet and she could walk around as herself, not as whoever she pretended to be to appease the expectations of her societal status.

Her wings were glorious in the dull autumn morning. Celia brought them forward, folding them in front of her so she could admire the rich peacock blue that had always been her favorite. Skimming her fingers lightly through the plumage, she plucked out a few stray feathers that had been broken or damaged in the night. They were as soft as a whisper against her skin, a part of her just the same as her hazel eyes or ginger hair. Celia never discarded the feathers she collected after she had preened her wings; instead, she deposited them in a gilded jewelry box on the vanity. Her mother thought it was odd, but then again her mother did not have to live under the constant threat of having part of her taken away—destroyed, _amputated_.

If what she loved so much were ever taken from her, what else would she have to remember them by?

She warmed up her feet in a pair of fur-lined slippers and started toward the door, easing it open so the hinges didn't groan. The short trek down the hall to the top landing of the staircase was just as precarious; the house was old and very fond of giving her location away.

Celia settled on the top step, feeling like a child again—eavesdropping on her parents' heated debates was a habit, especially if their discussions featured her name. The more they argued about her, the more Celia had spent her childhood thinking her existence in their house was simply an unwanted burden. Her parents' love for her was unconditional, she knew that now, but her stubborn insistence on clinging to what made her abnormal was a source of definite frustration.

"…without consulting me first?" Celia heard the last bit of her father's inquiry. "You held meetings with his parents _without my knowledge_."

"I thought you had no interest in the business of courtship," her mother answered. "And with Josephine as her chaperone, I trusted her judgment."

"When it comes to my own daughter, it should be _my_ business."

"Darling, you are being unreasonable," her mother defended. "It was one meeting, one harmless dance. It isn't as though the young man has proposed marriage."

"People talk." Celia heard her father's heavy pacing. "He may come from good money, but the very last thing I want is for _my daughter_ to be associated with someone who barely leaves his estate. He is…_strange_. We have done enough to keep Celia's appearances up for it to be squandered by some eccentric recluse."

Her mother gave a less-than-patient sigh. "He is a good man," she said. "He would treat our daughter well. If only you could be a little more open-minded—"

"I won't have it," her father interrupted.

"—you would see that he is a perfect match for her. He is someone who…" she lowered her voice, "who would care for her just as she is. The Mordrakes have had a difficult time finding a suitable wife for their son, and—"

Her father scoffed. "Well, that would come as no surprise."

"_Listen to me_," her mother demanded, in a quiet yet affirming tone. "They have yet to find anyone who might accept their son for everything he is. I believe that our Celia would be the one person who would have the capacity to love him. Our children are so similar in their difficulties, darling. I wish you would give it time, for the sake of their futures. Have some sympathy for the young man."

Celia crept down the staircase, her brow creased, her steps spurred on by her mother's words.

"I cannot," he said. "I _will not_. That is the end of it."

"It does not matter anymore, Father," Celia said, finally making her presence known. She walked into the parlor slowly. "He has not called upon me, and he said himself that he doesn't want to pursue a courtship. You have nothing to worry over."

Her father looked extraordinarily pleased and had no trouble showing it. "There. See, dearest? Even the young man himself is reasonable. It's settled, then."

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><p>"Miss Celia, there's a young man here to see you," the Hamiltons' maid, Evelyn, announced while Celia relaxed in her bedroom engrossed in a book.<p>

She peered over the pages of text to watch the young woman digging through the wardrobe overstuffed with dresses. Evelyn nearly became lost in the abundance of fabric, lace, and ribbons, and resurfaced with her blonde hair unkempt from its tight bun, holding a pastel pink gown.

"Hurry up," she said, politely as she could. "Let us get you decent and not keep him waiting."

The book snapped shut in Celia's palm. She sat up on the lounge, her wings sprawled in all their glory. She stretched them once she pulled herself to her feet, letting them flap lazily like a butterfly's wings. She did not enjoy the process of concealing them, and she commended Evelyn for her patience.

"I know you hate it, Miss Celia," she said, giving Celia a look of empathy. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't have to keep them hidden. Any man would be lucky to have a living angel."

Celia smiled. "You are far too kind, Evie," she said. Evelyn began helping her out of the casual dress she was already wearing. "Do you know who the young gentleman is?"

"I couldn't say. I didn't get a proper look at him," Evelyn told her. "Were you expecting anyone?"

"I…I don't know," Celia answered, sliding into the new dress, keeping her wings flush against her back. Evelyn worked with gentle care to fasten the dress shut, the extra fabric decorations in place to make the misshapen lumps underneath it from anyone's curious eyes. "No, I do not think I am. The dances at the gala were nearly forgettable."

"Nearly," Evelyn teased, a hint of laughter in her voice. "And what of Mr. Mordrake?" She met Celia's eyes in the reflection of the full-length mirror.

"_Evie_," Celia dismissed in a mock-scolding tone. "I told you there was nothing to be done about it."

"Yes, but you also told me that you wished to know more about him," Evelyn countered. "Which, in my opinion, Miss Celia, suggests there is indeed an interest to be found there."

Celia sighed. "You heard my father."

"I did." Evelyn nodded and bent to smooth out any wrinkles in the skirt. "Your mother had some very…_peculiar_ words as well. Isn't it curious…why such a handsome gentleman would have a difficult time finding a wife?"

"Suppose he has a pair of wings for himself," Celia said, though there was laughter on her lips. "How on earth do you know he is handsome, anyway?"

Evelyn was smirking. "I believe you implied it when you could not stop talking about his eyes."

Celia dissolved into giggles, shielding her face. "Evelyn, _please_…"

"Look at you, you're blushing." Evelyn's giggles joined Celia's. "Maybe your gentleman downstairs is him after all."

"I doubt Father would have let him through the door."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of hope," Evelyn reminded. "I shall pray that your paths cross again and Mr. Mordrake changes his mind."

"I am afraid you will have a great deal of praying to do."

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><p>"Ah, Celia, there you are," her mother greeted at the bottom of the stairs. Celia descended them deliberately, trying to read the expression on her face. "Your father is entertaining our guest in the drawing room."<p>

It couldn't have been Celia's fanciful imagination pretending that her mother sounded disappointed. Nevertheless, she put on a forced smile.

"Be civil and courteous," her mother continued. "He seems like a nice fellow. He could be a decent match."

"But not the one you would like for me."

Celia's mother kissed her temple. Together, they left the hallway and headed toward the drawing room.

"It is not always that women get what they want in this world. I think, rather, it is designed to work against us. That doesn't mean that we cannot put up a good fight for it." She rubbed the small of Celia's back. "Go on, Celia. They will be expecting you."

Encouraged by her mother's hint of bravery, Celia entered the drawing room and kept any shred of discontent she might have felt locked up tight. She was good at pretending—so good that sometimes she forgot that she had been abnormal by birth, that she wondered if someday the fraud she put on for others would replace who she really was. She found herself desperate in the quiet hours to find a space of her own where she could literally and figuratively spread her wings and discover herself.

She doubted she would ever find it.

The drawing room was warm. A fire crackled and roared in the hearth, filling up the space with a comfortable scent of burning wood. The walls were a lovely sage green, dotted with more heavy brass frames that housed paintings and portraits of long-dead ancestors. Some of the furniture was antique, passed down through the generations. Celia often wondered how the chairs could still hold weight.

Her father and their guest had their backs to her, the two of them leaning against the rarely-used grand piano. He had already brought out the expensive alcohol to impress their guest, from the looks of the glasses in their hands. Celia hadn't the slightest idea what they were talking about, but her father was lost in a bout of deep laughter.

"Celia," he managed once his laughter faded. His plump cheeks were red. "Glad you could join us. This is Mr. Lucian Westfield. His father and I are business associates, and he has just returned from university."

Celia groaned inwardly. _Of course_, she thought. Despite her growing disappointment, she offered a well-mannered curtsy. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Westfield."

He was a tall, lanky young man with a boyish face full of rounded edges and a touch of unshed baby fat. He could not be further from the likes of Mr. Edward Mordrake, and for Celia, that was probably a godsend. It was better not to be reminded of what had eluded her. While Edward Mordrake could have been the crisp night air and the moon, Lucian Westfield should have been the fresh dew on the early morning grass and the sun. He had a host of golden-blond curls and an easy, almost crooked smile.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Hamilton," he replied. "It is nice to put a face to a name at last. I do believe our fathers have been quite mischievous in their attempt to arrange our meeting now that I have completed my studies."

She maintained her peaceful façade, despite the fact that she wanted to grit her teeth. How long had her father been planning to set her up? Celia couldn't find it in herself to fault the young man for her father's scheming. Like her mother had said, he seemed like a decent man—attractive, wealthy, intelligent. Everything an upstanding young woman like herself searched desperately for to achieve the right kind of status or sustain the prestige she already had. Her father was appeased, at least. If Mr. Mordrake did not wish for a courtship—and his absolute silence appeared to solidify that—what was the harm in trying to pursue something with Mr. Westfield?

Celia settled into a chair near the hearth, and Lucian followed to sit across from her. She could feel her father's gaze on her back while he lingered near the piano.

"Lucian and I were just discussing his fondness for hunting," her father declared. "He has quite a skill for sport, from what his father tells me."

"Yes," Lucian agreed. "I was trying to convince your father to join our hunting party as the season approaches."

She nodded. It was an automatic response, the quiet agreement, the demure way in which she was supposed to sit idly by and take interest.

"Where did you study, Mr. Westfield?" Celia asked.

"Oxford," he said. "My father's line has attended dating back generations. I was eager to uphold the tradition."

"I envy you," Celia said without thinking about it. She couldn't stop herself, even though she knew it was foolish. "I always dreamt about what it would be like to attend a university."

Lucian chuckled to hide his obvious embarrassment on Celia's behalf, something that did not go unnoticed by Celia herself.

"Your father did not say how opinionated you were," he replied, after taking a sip from his glass. "No harm in dreaming, I suppose. Though for a young woman it is awfully outrageous. Unheard of."

Celia's father cut in, clearing his throat loudly. "You must excuse my dear Celia." He laughed, but it sounded almost painful. "She often spouts farfetched daydreams without proper consideration."

This time, Celia did grit her teeth. "I apologize, Mr. Westfield. My imagination tends to get the better of me. Please, tell me more about your athleticism. I'm sure my father would take great joy in that."

She continued to do what was asked of her, practicing the art of playing pretend.

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><p><strong>AN: Two updates in a week! Hope you enjoyed it! And don't worry, this isn't heading into love triangle territory. It's just a bit more conflict for Edward and Celia. Plus, I was asked if I could work in some jealous!Edward, which I also thought was interesting. This sets things up nicely. Drop me a line to let me know how I'm doing!**


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